


Admonition

by Spatzi



Series: To Sir, with Love [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Tom Riddle, Established Relationship, M/M, Professor Harry Potter, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatzi/pseuds/Spatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He swallowed and then breathed in, only to choke on a sob as he was pushed further up against the wall, crushed between cold stone and a hard body, hot breaths ghosting over his neck.</i><br/> <br/>Tom abuses his hall pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the tune of [My Propeller](http://grooveshark.com/s/My+Propeller/7kIi7Y?src=5), by Arctic Monkeys.

Hot. Heavy. Suffocating. He felt like a lemon, caught between fingers and a palm, slowly being wrung dry. A whimper almost left him as the hand unclenched. He swallowed and then breathed in, only to choke on a sob as he was pushed further up against the wall, crushed between cold stone and a hard body, hot breaths ghosting over his neck.  
  
"Professor—Harry—"  _Please._  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Touch me. Take me. _Fuck_  me."  
  
The kiss burned and he melted, a candle put too close to the fire place. His mind was spinning, the breaths inhaled through the nose not enough to calm him as he was lifted off the ground, the toe of one shoe barely scraping the floor. He rut against his professor as his leg was hooked around a hip, a hand travelling up and down the smooth planes of his thigh.  
  
"Fuck—yes! Oh—please! Fuck—!"  
  
Then all thoughts were knocked out of him as he was slammed once, twice, thrice against the wall; he was released just as one hard pinch was administered to the back of his thigh. The mouth crushed against his swallowed his cry.  
  
Professor Potter stepped back from him, chuckling darkly as he evaded the spit aimed at his eye.  
  
"You'll do well to learn not to accost me in the hallways again, Tom."   
  
His anger dissolved at the look he received over one cold shoulder, and his hand flew to press down between his legs, the other moving to where he knew a bruise was developing.   
  
_You know where and when to find me._  
  
He moaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went riding last weekend and was tossed off my horse and straight onto a fence where my leg got caught on a nail. While the gash running along my right leg (from the outside of my knee to my ankle) will not scar, the experience left me feeling painfully stupid, as this was the first time I decided to forgo using proper riding attire. Had I worn my boots, I doubt that I'd be sitting on my arse, propping up my leg until I have the go signal to do otherwise.
> 
> On a joyous note: I passed all 9 exams I took, and garnered the highest marks to boot! As a reward, I will be joined by the four others who made it to the top 5 rankings; we will be attending the following Formula One races: Spanish GP (10/5/2015), Monaco GP (24/5/2015), Austrian GP (21/6/2015), and the Italian GP (6/9/2015).
> 
> More stuff to draw inspiration from? Yeeeeeesssss!
> 
> (Driver!Tom, anyone? I envision fics where he gets bent over his own car by Harry, fucked senseless until all he feels is Harry's gear lever/shift stick even when he races.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely [happypill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/happypill) asked me if Daniel Radcliffe is my headcanon Harry. As much as I like Dan Rad, my answer is no. [Sergei Polunin](http://www.buro247.com/images/CA1_Marc_Jacobs_Menswear_FW_14_15_7.jpg), the bad boy and unorthodox genius of ballet, is my Harry Potter. (Just. Look. At. This. [Professor Potter-ish](http://www.buro247.com/images/CA5_Marc_Jacobs_Menswear_FW_14_15_4.jpg). Pic.) Now add Christian Coulson as Tom Riddle...
> 
>  ~~ _ **FUCK**_~~. This is the result.
> 
> (Written to the song [Hit Me Like A Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-oSzcTHW0yY), by The Pretty Reckless.)

Three words. Three little words. Three little, overused words that, when taken apart, mean nothing at all: they are mere components to a whole. But put them all together and they have the power to thrill, to excite, to devastate, to destroy. It's all a matter of context.

"Sir," he began, but Professor Potter would have none of his witticism, none of his alibis, none of his disobedience. A raised hand had him silent, the dimness of the room made him alert, the green that met his grey made him burn.

And those three words had him exploding into a million tiny pieces, a glass window shattered by a ball.

He took a step forward, a pale, shuddering pawn called forth by the sheer magnetism of the king. A king he would serve with his hands, on his knees, on his feet, with his mouth, with his body, on silken sheets, on rough carpets, against the cold stone wall, on that large mahogany desk with his cheek pressed against parchment spotted with ink, fingers scratching for purchase, knuckles white, and his back arching for more.

He felt himself scream, the sound muffled by the fingers deftly working his mouth, an oral mockery of intimacy. He felt dirty, like a wanton whore selling herself on the streets, letting herself be lorded over by Man's perverse desires. He wanted it, wanted this—wanted the pounding of hardness on him, against him, inside him.

It was dry, it was relentless. He was wet with sweat, tears, and cum. He had splattered all over himself, encased between wood and his professor, enjoying the burn from both the nearby fireplace and from the heat in his core.

Teeth bit into his shoulder and he mewled into the sheets of parchment as his passage was suddenly left gaping and clenching at nothing, the hard member that brutally pierced through him leaving his weeping body, only to return against the back of his thigh, quivering and shuddering, coating his bruise with hot liquid.

He nearly collapsed, but steady hands held him harder and still against the desk. His protest died as soon as it was formed in his mouth, murdered by the sweep of thick tongue that gently licked down his spine, over the curve of one buttock, down, down, down until it reached the mark on his thigh, lapping at the cum and sweat, at the pain, the sweet kisses that followed more than enough to chase away the sting of embarrassment from his earlier failed attempt at seduction in the hallway.

Tom sighed, blissful in the aftermath of his destruction—the destruction caused by three words:

_Shut the door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M FLYING TO SPAIN THIS WEEKEND TO PARTICIPATE IN THE FORMULA 1 SPANISH GP. IF YOU EVER TUNE IN ON RACE DAY AND SPOT A FEMALE EURASIAN (WITH TRIPLE LOBE STUD PIERCINGS ON EACH EAR, RAY BANS AVIATORS, BLACK WAVY HAIR TUCKED INTO A MESSY BUN), WHO IS SLIGHTLY LIMPING ABOUT DOWN BY THE PADDOCKS WITH A HANDKERCHIEF IN HER LEFT BACK POCKET & HER CELLPHONE STUFFED DOWN THE RIGHT AND AN IPOD STRAPPED TO HER LEFT ARM (I'M ANAL ABOUT WHERE THINGS ARE ON MY PERSON), YOU CAN THEN CLAIM YOU'VE CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF SPATZI. :P
> 
> Yes, this merits caps lock. ~~I'M BLOODY EXCITED, OKAY!???~~


End file.
